Author : Marco Chacon

She had one of those new things: A USB port in the back of her neck, just under the skull. We’d plug her in at parties and, with the controller, she’d do all kinds of wild things—karaoke, belly dancing, there was even a “Mardi gras button”–but we didn’t use it too much.

Afterwards, she wouldn’t remember anything but a soft warm feeling.

My friends said I was the luckiest guy alive (none of their girlfriends would do it) but I wasn’t too sure.

When I hugged her, I’d run my fingers through her hair and I’d feel the little holes with their metal teeth.

We tried some downloaded porno-ware but her eyes were like glass marbles when she was jacked. It kinda creeped me out.

When they came out with the new ones she didn’t have the money to upgrade and I don’t think it’s a coincidence we got into a lot of fights around that time. We sort of drifted apart.

“You’re whacked,” my friends said. “That’s a dream girl.”

“It’s totally on fire,” they said, “no one’s getting hurt.”

“What’s the matter with you,” they said, “it’s hotter than you deserve—you better hang on to that.”

But I let her go. Today when I’m asked, I tell people we were incompatible.

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